Tatay

I was about 21 when my Tatay passed away. The year was 1996. We never saw any signs nor had any premonitions. Totally unexpected. I still vividly recall that day when I got the news. I was at a hospital in Cebu, circling doctors’ offices, barely six months into my first job as a Medical Representative. It was in one of the halls that I stumbled into my cousin. I would never forget the expression on her face that day. All she ever said was, “Bhoy, your Nanay is at home, crying. She got a call about your Tatay...”. Without thinking, I headed for the nearest exit and took the first available cab without realizing that my cousin was running behind me. Not a single word was exchanged inside the cab. My mind went swirling with images of Tatay. The last moments I’d spent with him.

We got home, and immediately I saw Nanay sobbing uncontrollably. She reached for me and said,  “Bhoy, imong (your) Tatay, in his room, they said lifeless...”. Instinctively, I hugged her and tried reassuring her that they had made a mistake. Only a few minutes later though, another call. Our worst fear was confirmed. He was found lifeless by a roommate inside the bathroom of the room they were renting in Manila. I struggled to hold back the tears. I saw my brother did too. We had to be strong for that time, for Nanay who nearly collapsed upon hearing the news. We had to arrange everything first, tickets for the next possible flight, contact Aunts and Uncles in Manila to help us get around the city and of course, break the news to my sister working in Chicago. 

When everything was done, my brother and I finally went up to pack. My brother finally broke down on the bed, so I got to our parent’s closet first. At that moment, everything just caved in. I reached for Tatay’s clothes, held on to them for as long as I could and cried like I’ve never cried before.

Tatay had been in Manila for almost two weeks for a month long training when his heart gave up on him. He had been struggling with diabetes for more than two years and wasn’t really that religious with his medication. Stubbornness was his signature trait. An advocate of self-medication, he rarely heeded any doctor’s prescriptions and advice, including my Nanay’s, who was in fact a doctor.

Such stubbornness, I’ve greatly inherited from him I must admit. But there are far more greater things my father’s passed on to us. And it is only with sharing some of our memories that I can rightfully explain them.

My Tatay wasn’t born into a life of comfort. At a young age, he learned to work to provide for himself and his family. He graduated from college, became a Certified Public Accountant, earned his Masters in Business, and finally, became a lawyer, all by his own means. I often think that if only I possessed half of his intellect and drive, I would, perhaps, be far more better than what I am now.

But in spite of these things he’s single-handedly achieved, he remained simple in his ways. He was more comfortable walking instead of driving, he preferred his flip flops over his dress shoes and was happier staying home and tinkering with things that didn't really need fixing. But what made him even happier was seeing his children experience all the things he never had the luxury of having. We weren’t rich, but my parents provided us with all that we ever needed.

Tracing back to my childhood, I always knew I was a Tatay’s boy. I’d sit on his lap for hours until his legs could barely support my weight (I’d reached 140 lbs and already 10 years old when I realized I had to outgrow the habit). And I would ask him questions about anything that ever crossed my mind.  It was in one of those days that I noticed a protruding bone on his hand. I touched it and asked him about it. He told me he got it when he was about my age working as a carpenter in a furniture factory. He was maneuvering an ax when he miscalculated. Instead of the wood, it landed on his hand. And I asked him why he had to work at such an age. I didn't get it. Well, on that day, he imparted to me the values of sacrifice, hard work and determination to get to where you want.

Often misunderstood with his attitude towards money, relatives and co-workers often tagged him as stingy. But they couldn’t erase the fact that he was a  generous man. How else could he provide a decent lifestyle for us and still extend help to his poor relatives if he maintained an extravagant life. Growing up poor, he embraced the valuable lessons of living within your means and spending only on what you need. And he made it quite clear that we should follow his lead. There were obviously times when the lures of materialism put a tight hold on me. Fortunately, the sight of him in his regular clothes and flip flops would instantly erase the craving for all things branded.

But there was this one thing that really bothered me while I was growing up. It was a feeling of guilt constantly haunting me  for not achieving much academically. Here I was, surrounded with all the books and resources I ever needed, a more than stable family atmosphere, and yet, I couldn’t even attain half of what he had accomplished. He consistently made it to the top of his class from grade school to College. This, he managed by reading borrowed text books from the school library and classmates, and writing reports in a makeshift home using a kerosene lamp while juggling time between odd jobs and his studies. But not once did he ever pressure us to topple this feat. He only wanted us to appreciate and never take for granted the small luxuries he was able to afford us. He wanted us to get the best education so we have better chances of securing dependable careers. It was always our future he had in mind. And he had no intention of ever letting us go through the far-from-easy life he had struggled with. 

On the plane to Manila, I still couldn’t believe it. The man who had the answers to all my questions, my walking encyclopedia, my life teacher, was no longer with us. For a long time, an unanswered question invaded my thoughts incessantly, “Tay, have I ever made you proud?” I was angry at life for suddenly snatching him from us. For not having the chance to let him witness my own little successes. This left was an empty space in my life, a hanging chapter which kept me from completely letting go.

Now, 12 years' passed. I look back into my life again. I peek into his, too. This time, it's different. I now have the answers. How could I have not known? 

I find myself sitting in his lap again, circling my fingers around that odd, prominent bone on his hand. Strangely, this time, it was him asking me a question, “Are you happy anak?” I throw him a smile to assure him that I am. He acknowledges it, and gives me that old, familiar smile and says, “Then it’s all been worth it”. 

Deep down in my heart, I know, this was his life’s work.